Giving In
by gwennie3579
Summary: Mark/Roger SLASH. Roger says Goodbye, Love. Who's going to get him through the longest nights?


**Disclaimer:** I don't own... yeah, yeah, I guess that's not exactly an original joke in this crowd, huh?

**A/N:** I have no idea why, after ten years of obsession with this musical, I JUST now felt the need to write a fanfic or slash this pair... but suddenly it felt right, so here I am. Alternating Roger/Mark PoV, Character Death (NOT Mark or Roger), and blatant sap at the end. I didn't mean to, I swear. It just happened.

It seems right that it's snowing the morning of the burial. It's the middle of March, and the fat, wet flakes settle gently around the daffodil chutes that have just begun pushing their way up through the soil. Vaguely, Roger hopes the late-season storm won't kill the young flowers.

He can't handle anymore death right now.

There's a hand on his shoulder, and he turns, eyes meeting a compassionate blue gaze. Unable to return the sentiment or express his thanks, Roger instead focuses on the melted snowflakes sliding down the lenses of Mark's glasses, dripping down to mingle with the tears that linger on his reddened cheeks.

"The driver's ready whenever we are," Mark says, giving him a squeeze with a gloved hand. "But take as much time as you need."

Roger nods, turning back to the newly-dug grave, where the plain, unadorned casket is ready to be lowered into the frozen ground. There's no headstone yet, just a spray of white roses paid for by Benny, and a stuffed cat from Maureen and Joanne propped against it. He can feel Mark's presence for a few long beats behind him, and then he hears him turn and trudge slowly back to the car, where Benny and Collins are waiting.

Roger crouches down once Mark is gone, reaching out a hand to brush the corner of the casket. The smooth wood feels strangely warm against his bare fingertips, and he feels a sort of comfort in that, thinking that Mimi is going into the cold ground cocooned in warmth.

Bowing his head, Roger lets out a long breath, eyes and throat burning with tears he hasn't yet been able to shed. "I should tell you..." he whispers, then heaves a sigh, pushing himself to his feet.

He starts down the hill toward the car and then pauses, casting one last look over his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, then continues on his way. He picks a meandering path through the headstones, skirting around an ornate marble mausoleum and veering into a less ostentatious portion of the cemetery. He stops briefly at a small and simple grave marker, reaching down to sweep off a dusting of snow. "Take care of her, Angel," he says, his mouth quirking in a half-smile as he imagines the reunion of the two best friends. "And if you get around to it, try to convince her to forgive me."

The car, when he gets to it, is stifling, the windows covered in an opaque white layer of condensation. Collins reaches out to pat his leg when he slides inside, and Mark gives him a worried smile as Benny tells the driver to head out. Roger stares at the window, glad he's unable to see out, knowing he doesn't need to anyway; the memory of her gravesite is forever etched in his mind.

The wake, when they finally arrive, is already in full swing. Mark is grateful to Maureen and Joanne for offering up their townhouse; he's not sure Roger can take returning to the loft right now. The two of them have slept over at Benny's the last two nights, escaping the ghosts rattling around in the rafters while they made the arrangements.

Mark is itching to pick up his camera and film the motley crew of dancers, druggies, and New York high society mingling over crudites in the girls' den, but out of deference to Roger, he doesn't. Instead, he perches on a leather sofa next to his friend, ready to fetch a drink or food or anything else Roger might need, but knowing ultimately the other man will never ask.

The pervading mood at the wake is one of respectful jollity, as Mimi's co-workers and friends celebrate her life with toasts and shared anecdotes. There are some though, who cannot celebrate, not yet.

Mark's gaze wanders over to the corner, where Benny is slouched in a chair, looking thunderstruck. Collins leans against the arm of the chair, one hand resting lightly on the other man's shoulder in a silent gesture of support. He sees Maureen laugh with a guest, playing the perfect hostess, then lean her head against the wall when the woman walks away, taking a shuddering breath. Joanne sits with her parents, a real, old-fashioned cloth handkerchief clutched in her hand.

The mourners have kept their distance since the group arrived. Mark thinks it's probably because they aren't sure whether to offer condolences to Roger or to Benny. It's no secret Mimi had been living with Benny at the end, though she died in the loft, curled up in Roger's arms. Mark remembers how tiny and fragile she looked there, like a porcelain doll already cracked, so easily broken.

There had been a fight when Benny arrived, just moments after she slipped away. Mark remembers the chill he felt when Benny, always calm, always cool, fell to his knees with an anguished cry when he saw Mimi's body cradled in Roger's lap. Benny had lunged first, angry that Mimi had left him, had gone to the loft -- to Roger -- to die.

If he looks closely, Mark can just detect the swelling around the edge of Benny's lower lip from the punch Roger threw. It landed true, stunning them both into instant stillness as Mark shouted that they ought to be ashamed. He remembers moving Mimi's body to the couch, remembers how light she was, like air, like nothing. He dropped a kiss on her forehead, brushing a tangled mess of hair out of her face, then turned a disapproving eye on the two men who were breathing heavily, watching with twin expressions of guilt and horror.

Mark shakes off the memory, turning his attention again to Roger, who is staring vacantly into space, green eyes glazed and faraway. Tentatively, he reaches out a hand, placing it over Roger's, feeling somewhat crestfallen when his friend doesn't respond.

"Hey," he says softly, "need anything? Some water or --" But Roger cuts him off with an almost-imperceptible shake of his head.

"Could we..." he says a few moments later. "Could we just go?"

Mark nods, surprised by the request. "Sure," he says, getting to his feet and signalling for Benny and Collins. Benny barely looks up, but Collins acknowledges him with a nod, and disappears into the spare bedroom to get their coats. Seeing that Benny isn't going to call the driver, Mark starts for the door. "Just let me --"

"Do you mind if we walk?" Roger asks, suddenly pulling himself to his feet.

"Okay," Mark says slowly, wondering if Roger remembers it's thirty degrees and snowing outside, but unwilling to tell him no. Collins walks up with their belongings, and Mark takes them with a brief explanation. Collins gives him a worried look but he shrugs it off, assuring him they'll be fine, and telling him needlessly to look after Benny.

The walk back to the loft is silent and, unsurprisingly, cold. Mark's breath ghosts out in front of him in a white cloud and he walks fast, hoping that will help keep him warm. Roger keeps pace with him, but seems unaffected by the effort or the weather. The temperature has dropped, and the snowflakes are becoming small and icy, stinging Mark's cheeks above his tightly-wound scarf.

Mark hesitates when they arrive at the loft, afraid of how Roger will react when they go inside. But the other man doesn't bat an eye, walking through the door and plodding steadily up the stairs. Mark trails behind him, wishing there was something, anything, he could do to ease his friend's pain.

Roger has his coat off and the key in the lock by the time Mark reaches the door to the loft, and Mark braces himself for every possible reaction. Except the one he gets.

No reaction at all.

Roger moves through the loft like a phantom, dropping his coat onto a hook by the door, untwining his scarf as he heads for his room. He says nothing and doesn't pause, striding into his room and shutting the door without a backward glance.

Mark stands in the middle of the loft alone, just him and his memories and an emptiness that has nothing to do with Mimi.

Roger rolls over, tugging the tangled sheets and blankets over his shoulders, shivering against the perpetual chill of the loft. He cracks one eye open and peers over the covers at the alarm clock next to bed. It's blinking midnight, angry and red, and he realizes the power must have gone out at some point during the night.

He's surprised he didn't hear Mark stumbling around and swearing, searching for the lighter he loses during every power surge.

His room is dark and full of shadows, writhing and twisting in the pale moonlight filtering in through the dirty windows. Ducking his head back beneath the sheets, he closes his eyes against the night, afraid of what he might see.

The tears come before Roger can even think about stopping them, hot and burning trails of fire down his cheeks and the back of his throat. Stunned by the suddeness of his emotions, Roger gasps, then heaves a sob that rattles his entire body. He lets out a long, low cry that sounds more animal than human, then clamps his mouth shut, afraid of waking Mark.

He shakes in silence as innumerable minutes tick by, feeling the weight of hopelessness, of his own mortality, settle over him like a smothering shroud. He can feel another desperate moan building inside him, and he swallows it down, letting out a strangled, choking noise instead.

It's then he realizes he's not alone. He didn't hear the door open, but suddenly he can hear Mark's breathing, deep and even, as he stands beside the bed. The shame of being found in such a state only brings on another round of sobs, and this time, he lets them come.

He freezes for an instant when he feels Mark pull back the edge of the covers, holding his breath as his best friend sits on the edge of the mattress for a long moment as if pondering something. Neither of them speak, and finally Mark slides into the bed, pressing up against his back and slipping an arm around his waist in one fluid motion.

Roger lays there, on-edge, almost afraid to breathe. Mark's hand finds his, clenched into a fist against his chest, and his fingertips brush Roger's knuckles as he fumbles under the covers. Roger begins infinitesimally to relax, and he feels Mark's fingers suddenly laced through his.

There are tears behind his eyelids but, for the first time in days, he feels truly calm. Soaking in the warmth of the body behind him, Roger lets himself sink into the mattress, sink into the comfort Mark is silently offering, and lets himself sleep.

Mark doesn't dare mention the night before at breakfast, and Roger doesn't bring it up. Their conversation is sporradic, but not terribly awkward, for which Mark is grateful. He wasn't sure he was making the right choice, going into Roger's room, but he couldn't bear another moment of hearing him cry like that, like his soul was being ripped from his body.

If Mark is honest with himself, he took as much comfort as he gave. Mimi's death hit them all hard, especially coming at a time when so many of their relationships were in a state of flux. Collins was just starting to date again, Maureen and Joanne were talking about adoption, and Benny and Roger were locked in a silent standoff for Mimi's affections. And Mark... well, Mark was alone, as usual. Caught in the midst of it all, bouncing around like a ping-pong ball as he once again struggled to keep the lines of communication open, to keep their family bound together.

He thinks it's funny, in a tragically ironic sort of way, that death is what eventually brings them back together. Even Roger and Benny have reached a sort of tentative reconciliation, as each comes to terms with his own loss. Mark, for his part, deals mostly with his guilt. He can't help feeling a nagging regret that his primary feeling the moment Mimi died was one of profound relief.

He'll never tell Roger, of course, but all he could think about in the following hours and days was that finally, their lives could get back to normal. Though he has to admit, last night wasn't normal. It was, however, one of the most beautiful moments he can remember having with his best friend -- a perfect, albeit brief, connection, and complete understanding.

It becomes clear as evening approaches that neither of them are going to mention what happened, or suggest that it happen again. Roger strums clumsily on his guitar, only ever making a halfhearted attempt at producing anything that could actually be called music. Mark watches through his camera lens, trying to keep an objective eye, an artist's eye, as he watches the other man mourn.

As an artist, Mark can acknowledge that Roger is a beautiful creature. His form is long and lean, made of graceful arcing lines that move fluidly as he bends over his instrument. His face is hard and angular, covered in at least two days' stubble, but his green eyes no longer have that glassy, out-of-touch look of the last few days. His hair is longer now, curling over his collar and around his ears, and Mark has a sudden inexplicable desire to touch it, to curl a lock around his finger and find out if it feels as soft as it looks.

Mark bolts up, knocking his beloved camera to the couch, and eliciting a curious look from Roger.

"I should go to bed," he says in a choked whisper.

"It's barely ten," Roger says, with a glance down at his watch.

"It's been a long week," Mark responds, knowing Roger won't be able to deny that. And he's right. Roger nods his head, understanding, and goes back to his guitar.

With a relieved sigh, Mark goes to his room and shuts the door firmly behind him before crawling into bed.

Two hours later, he's still awake, or at least, awake enough to hear the door when it snicks open. He rolls over, not surprised to find Roger standing silhouetted in his doorway. He waits there, frozen, for a long moment, while Mark swallows down his conflicted emotions. Eventually, Mark pulls back the blanket in a welcoming gesture, and Roger crawls into bed beside him.

Only their shoulders touch, but the contact is enough to soothe Mark and lull him into a state of deep relaxation. Moments later, he hears Roger's soft snoring, and with a slight smile touching his lips, he allows himself to sleep.

It becomes a sort of game between the two of them, to see which one will break first. More often than not, it's Roger, and he's at least got the good sense to feel a little embarrassed about his lack of willpower.

He wonders what Mark must think of him, acting so weak, but no matter how low his friend's opinion might go, it's not enough to stop Roger from seeking comfort in his bed.

After that first night, the two rarely touched, unless it was an innocent brushing of arms or shoulders, or occasionally feet. Roger didn't mind; he was so grateful Mark hadn't kicked him out or made fun of him, he would've been content sleeping on a blanket on the cold, hard floor.

But Mark never let that happen. He almost always went to bed first, and he was almost always waiting with the covers turned down when Roger decided to join him. Only a handful of times did Roger purposely go to bed earlier, mostly to see if Mark would eventually follow.

He always did.

Roger knows the dynamic of their friendship is slowly shifting, and he wonders if Mark has noticed, too. He'd be lying if he said he's surprised by it; he's only surprised it hasn't happened sooner. Mimi, of course, was the main roadblock, and though it pains Roger to think of her in such a way, he knows it's true.

Roger wishes he knew how to express his gratitude to Mark, for being there for him, for helping him deal with his grief, for crossing an unspoken boundary, consequences be damned. It's very un-Mark-like behavior, and it sends a little shiver of heat through Roger to think of it.

That night, Roger feels uneasy as the clock ticks slowly toward midnight. Mark, predictably, announces he's heading to bed at quarter past the hour, and is it just Roger's imagination, or does the other man give him a slight knowing smile? Roger's breath catches, and he feels a swarm of butterflies unfurl in his belly.

He waits longer than usual before he joins Mark, staring into space and wondering if he's making the biggest mistake of his life... or the best. Finally, at 1:30, he puts his guitar away and pads softly into Mark's room.

Mark makes a big show of rolling over and blinking sleepily, though Roger knows good and well he hasn't been sleeping. Smiling a little, Roger steps into a beam of silver moonlight and reaches up, stripping off his t-shirt. He's not sure he isn't simply imagining the soft gasp he hears from the bed, and so he ignores it, nonchalantly undoing his jeans and pulling them off, even though his hands are trembling.

It's been an unspoken rule between the two of them that they sleep fully clothed, or at least in boxers and a t-shirt. It made sense at first, in order to stay warm in the frigid loft. But now that spring has officially sprung, the bedroom stays above freezing, and the heat generated by having two bodies in the same bed makes it sometimes unbearable.

Thus rationalizing his actions, Roger slides beneath the sheets, inching as close as he dares to Mark's side. His bare arm brushes against the cotton of Mark's t-shirt, and he pauses for a moment, afraid to make any sudden moves. He can practically feel the tension coming in waves from the the other man.

Deciding ignorance -- feigned or otherwise -- really is bliss, he rolls onto his side and props himself up on one arm.

"Do you want to know why Mimi left me for Benny?" he asks, without preamble. There's nothing but silence to fill the space between them, and Roger's expectant face falls, realizing Mark is going to pretend this all away.

Then, there's a shuffling noise, and Roger feels Mark shifting around. In the dim moonlit room, he can barely make out Mark's face as he too turns onto his side, draping one arm over his pillow and propping his chin on his hand.

"Why?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Roger swallows, wondering if this is a good idea. But now that he's started, he knows he has to follow through.

"She told me that all the words I used to say to her were just that... words. Empty. Just meaningless, pretty songs." Roger's throat burns as he remembers Mimi's accusations, the hurt in her dark eyes.

"That's terrible," Mark says, then sucks in a breath. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to say that Mimi was --"

"It's okay," Roger says, feeling slightly warmed by Mark's protectiveness. "She wasn't exactly wrong."

"But if you never meant any of it... why did you say it?"

Roger takes a deep breath, and suddenly realizes his skin has gone all cold and clammy, in spite of the warm bed, and the heat radiating from Mark.

"It wasn't that I didn't mean it," he says, reaching for the words... the _right _words to say. "I loved Mimi. I loved her very much." Roger's voice cracks, and he pauses for a moment, trying to regain his composure. "I just... I just didn't love her the way I should."

Mark shakes his head, and Roger can see his eyes narrow in confusion. "What does that mean?"

"Mimi was... an inspiration to me. She made me want to sing better, write better songs... she made me want to _be _better. I gave her what I could, what I thought she wanted. But it wasn't enough." Roger sits up suddenly, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around his legs. He doesn't like to think of the way he hurt Mimi, the way he led her own... even though he didn't realize he was doing it.

Roger hears Mark moving behind him, and he realizes the other man is sitting up too, leaning in close.

"So what did Mimi want?" he asks, reaching one hand out and pressing it lightly against Roger's back, his warm fingers sending sparks of electricity jumping along his skin.

"Benny," Roger says, with a bitter laugh. "I'll never understand it, but she really loved the asshole."

Mark chuckles, rubbing his hand in soothing circles over Roger's hyper-sensitive skin. He can hardly concentrate on what he wants -- needs -- to say with Mark in such close proximity. He scoots away, turning to give him a little smile so he doesn't take it the wrong way.

"But if she was so happy with Benny," Mark says, looking a little at little at sea without Roger's nearness to anchor him, "why did she come here... come to _you_... to... to..."

"To die," Roger finishes, feeling the tell-tale sting of tears in his eyes for what must be the millionth time in the last four weeks.

"Yeah," Mark says, looking away sheepishly. It suddenly occurs to Roger that he looks incredibly young without his glasses, his eyes wide and owlish in the darkness.

"I think she wanted to... to forgive me," Roger says, voice cracking as he remembers back to that night. "For hurting her. For leading her on. I think that's what she was going to do, but she... she never got to..."

Roger turns away, feeling the hot tears slip down his cheeks. His shoulders are shaking and he finds it difficult to get a steady breath. Suddenly, there are arms around him -- thin, but stronger than he ever imagined, strong enough to hold him, hold his pain.

Marks rocks him gently back and forth, whispering soothing nonsense into his ear. Finally, when the crying stops and Roger has no more energy left for anything but half-hearted sniffles, he turns in Mark's arms, a decision made.

But before he can follow through, Mark's lips are on his and Mark's hands are everywhere and holy _hell _it's so much better than anything he's been imagining all these long, lonely months. And he has been. Imagining it, that is. He can finally admit to himself that what he's been running from -- what he's been so scared of -- wasn't Mimi, or his sickness, or his failure, or even impending death.

It was this. It was the love of his fucking life.

Tired of running, Roger kisses back with all the passion he can muster. Mark's arms are over his head then, and Roger is pulling off his t-shirt, flinging it haphazardly to the floor. They fall back against the mattress, and Roger moves over his best friend, his lover, his everything.

The rest of the night passes in a series of vignettes, frozen forever in Roger's memory. Mark's hands fisted in the sheets. Mark's head thrown back, eyes shut tight, teeth worrying his lower lip. Mark's flat stomach, nearly concave, bathed in a puddle of silver moonlight. Mark's eyelashes, fair and trembling, resting on the curve of his cheek as the pair fall into an exhausted and dreamless sleep.

As Roger drifts on a languid sea of contentment, he awakens just once. The first pale rays of pink sunshine are falling through the windowpane, bathing the room in a soft glow. He can hear a whispering in his ear, so faint he can't make out the words. He blinks blearily, confused, and then suddenly the whispering sharpens, coming together to form a phrase he heard once, from a voice that touched his very soul.

"Give in to love..."

Reaching over to pull Mark closer, Roger smiles, offering up a silent 'thank you' and falling back into a peaceful sleep.


End file.
